


our hearts long to take flight

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: ignoct week 2k19 [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Whump, aranea is cool ok, but at least they have each other right, its just as painful for noct tho too so, whipping boy!Ignis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 03:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Simple: LoyaltySituational: Someone gets turned into an animal—chaos ensuesWhen King Regis took his son and turned to Tenebrae and its healer Queen, Ignis refused to be left behind.But when Niflheim attacked, ravaging the floating islands of trees and stone, he insisted to be left behind.Ravus and Luna, though their mother slain, could at least escape with the King — though Noctis would pay the price for their rescue. Ignis would not leave his Prince to suffer alone, so he stays within the fire and wreckage to be stolen away to Niflheim. Together.





	our hearts long to take flight

**Author's Note:**

> wassup time for some angst (ʘ‿ʘ✿)

Noctis, for his part, looks as stoic as ever. His lips are a thin line, just a bit chapped and in the want of a balm, but not much else is to be seen. His hands, soft and clean, keep loosely clasped to each other in his lap, and he crosses his ankles while his back remains relaxed against the back of his chair. A simple, white, cheap plastic thing unfolded for him to sit in. To listen, to watch. 

Only, it’s a tragic thing the count goes far past what both his hands can handle, and he’s gotten _ experience _ in keeping his facade up. He has a good few years under his belt now, grown into an expert of piecing together a poker face scavenged from broken glass and rusted blood. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, even as a small little thing who clung to his father's shadow and chased after his cape, Noctis had known he'd have to build up his defenses and walls. Had known that the Council wasn't made up of all gentle giants and soft hearts, that they had prowling wolves and slithering snakes waiting for a mistake or a crack to strike. 

But even experts make mistakes, and he feels his mask crack in its weakest areas. His hands are stiff now, his manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. His back aches, from where he's kept his posture just too straight and rigid for the past hour, and his shoulders go just a fraction more tense for each grunt and lash he hears. He clenches his jaw that much tighter at every strike drawn across red flesh, and it takes everything in him to not see red himself. 

He once thought he'd have time to learn, from his father and his closest confidants, how to build his patience and turn his nerves to steel under the cruel scrutiny of the world and its blades. 

But not like this, never like this. And it only makes the fire in his veins rage and roar, when they foolishly believe their efforts will freeze his spirits and turn them into dead coals. 

Because with every bead of sweat and drop of blood they spill from _ him, _Noctis marks down a name and burns each of their faces into his mind, his eyelids, into his very soul. 

He stares and stares and _ stares _, remembers every little feature of every damn Nif here, etches them into his memory and promises vengeance on each face and name he has listed. He watches, even when his eyes go dry and they sting, but he does not cry. He refuses; he's spent years crying that he has no more left to give them, and he won't give them the pleasure of seeing his tears. 

"Hm. I think that's enough for today. I do believe the little prince has learned his lesson?" 

Caligo stills and holds the whip in both his hands, its dark leather stained with blood and sweat. Noctis looks at that instead, avoiding the man's eyes. Not out of fear or respect, but he won't take any chances and give the bastard another excuse for an extra dozen lashes. Then again, he’ll search for any ridiculous reason just to fuck with them anyway. Look him in the eyes? Ha, how _ dare _ Noctis have the gall to see each other as equals. Ten lashes. Avoid eye contact? So apparently the captain wants more respect than that. Ten lashes. Maybe more, maybe less.

So Noctis tries his luck and goes for middle ground, moving his gaze between Caligo’s hands and his face. His chest. Right where he’d like to shove a sword straight through and then some. A clean death is undeserving. 

Not after everything he's done to Ignis. What _ everyone's _done to Ignis. 

Noctis draws a quiet breath, steady and slow to calm the quivering of his hands as he digs his nails into his palms. "Yes, sir."

"And we are confident this mistake won't happen again?" 

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir."

"Hm." Caligo weighs Noctis' words against the whip in his hand and tilts his chin up to throw a sneer down at him. "Just for good measure, since it seems you've been hard of learning lately — five more lashes."

Noctis meets Ignis' eyes, red with strain and delicate blood vessels, tears threatening to spill forth but never falling. Ignis gives the barest of nods, and that effort alone looks like it takes everything out of him to even do. 

Noctis always wonders, even after the countless whips and burns and assault, how or if Ignis can make it through. He wonders how many years it's been, ever since they were mere children and stolen away in the place of Ravus and Luna. Wonders how many years it's been since their tormentors had decided on a new tactic after learning the hapless prince could take more than they could physically dole out. Wonders how many years it's been since they first strapped him down and forced him — as he screamed, thrashed, and wept for the first time he'd been taken — to watch Ignis take "punishments" in his liege's stead. 

But he knows Ignis will continue for as long as he is able, and will continue even when he cannot. And while Noctis would _ beg _ on his hands and knees to make it all stop, to demand that they take it out on him again and instead on Ignis, he won’t. Because Ignis is doing it all for him, taking every burn and bruise with clenched jaws and white-knuckled fists, and Noctis won’t throw all his efforts away by bowing his own head toward their enemies. He won’t grovel, else it’d only add insult to injury, and Ignis has been hurt enough hundreds of times over. 

So he bides his time, watches with as much nonchalance as he can muster, even as blood blooms across Ignis’ chest and back. A bystander, a Niff, spits out how heartless the Lucian prince must be, to watch his dearest friend and loyal vassal take each blow yet not even show a crack of pity. Noctis doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic and trying to get a rise out of him, or if the fucker is new around here; they may as well put a whip to his skin, since his own heart breaks and bleeds with every strike against Ignis’ back. 

But Caligo knows what he’s doing. He knows where and how to make it hurt, in places the bare eye cannot see. In places that go far deeper than the physical flesh allows. 

It’s only when they return to their room — with Ignis slung over his shoulder and both hobbling down the hallways — that Noctis lets his own pain out, so Caligo and his henchmen don’t get the pleasure of seeing him break down. His hands shake with fury and grief, and dear Ignis, despite his own injuries, places his hands over Noctis’ and helps pry open their abused first aid kid. It’s the third one they’ve had to open this month. They go through antiseptic and gauze like water, yet Noctis treasures them like they’re fine nuggets of gold. 

"I can't keep doing this." Noctis barely manages to choke out his words, barely manages to see through the haze of tears as he carefully tends to bleeding wounds. His fingers still shake, even after all the years and how _ regular _ this has become. Not out of anxiety or fear, but guilt and remorse and rage. "I can't let them keep doing this to you."

"You can, and you will." It is Ignis, of course, who brings him back. Grounds him. He tugs a wrap around his arm, secures it in place as Noctis finishes the dressings on his back, then twists around to entwine their fingers together. It's a greasy mess of sticky ointment and dark blood, but neither pull away from the other. 

Noctis lets his tears fall, Ignis does too. 

He had said it once, and only once, his sole regret when he felt the burden far too heavy for him to bear. That he regretted letting Ignis come along to Tenebrae, in his childish foolishness and desire to have his companion at his side, believing a fellow child only two years older than him could provide just as much protection as his father and the magic running in his veins. When Niflheim invaded Tenebrae and ran a sword straight through Queen Sylva’s life, they left Lunafreya and Ravus to witness the blood and fire that decimated their once beautiful kingdom. 

King Regis had only a split second to make his decision, but Noctis had made it for him. When he had stayed behind, shoving himself out of his father’s arms and watching the utter despair flash in the king’s eyes, his own little heart almost broke; but at the very least, he could save Ravus and Luna and Ignis — 

Ignis had chosen to stay behind as well, and that moment of realization haunted Noctis all his days until he one day crumbled and confessed his remorse. Ignis, though, had refused to forgive him, only because there was nothing to forgive, and had made it clear there would be no more of that. No nights of soul-crushing guilt to keep his Prince’s eyes wet throughout the hours since it was his decision to stay by Noctis’ side, whatever repercussions be damned. He would not leave him to face it all alone. 

"We'll survive, just as we always have." Ignis says, but they both know he's telling himself that as much as he's telling it to Noctis. He leans his forehead in, settling a light weight against Noctis' own, never minding the sweat and salt slicking his skin.

Blood, sweat, tears — sharing it is the least of their worries. If anything, Noctis wishes he was the one bleeding instead. May as well be, considering how much his own heart hurts. 

Ignis would never let him though. Not again. He's watched them lay scar over scar on Noctis, remembers the way they specifically aimed for the tender wounds of that horrific daemon attack; and now, that gnarled mess of hard tissue and damaged nerves will forever leave Noctis with a limp and a pain in his step. 

They hold each other, Noctis mindful of the fresh wounds and Ignis careful for Noctis' haywire nerves, and kiss their tears away and dry the blood. Ignis is right. They'll survive — they have to. If not for their families and a kingdom far across the ocean, then for each other. And if not that, should they lose the other, gods’ forbid, then out of pure spite. Noctis has always been something of a stubborn thing, a stone that weathers even the strongest storm, and his persistence has always won him his prize in the end. 

And it comes in a woman who's had enough of her contractor's mad schemes and relentless torment. 

Aranea Highwind had been the only soul either of them tolerated, to the point they found an unlikely ally in her. A mercenary through and through but a soldier who cared for her men and underlings. And two tragic souls caught in a mad king’s conquest, apparently.

"Look, you little brats, I've seen more blood than either of you ever will. But beating up kids? That's not my shtick." Aranea had said one day, quietly smuggling in a first aid kit for their use. After having watched Noctis struggle with inexperience and setting the bandages too loose or too tight, she had patiently taught them both the basics and guided their hands with a gentleness Noctis never expected from her. 

She warned them, when she could, if Caligo or Loqi felt particularly on edge or were looking to vent out their frustrations, so Ignis and Noctis could at least brace themselves for what was to come, if they couldn't avoid it. She brought them news of Lucis, of their home kingdom and King Regis, how the whole of Lucis banded together and fought against the Empire's greedy and bloody claws, while otherwise Iedolas would make sure the two would be kept in the dark and in anxiety. And, on occasion, a hastily scribbled letter with burnt edges and ink that would soon be smeared with Noctis' tears, written in that old familiar script his father had taught him. 

Noctis was especially thankful for the small cans of sodas and energy drinks she sneaked in — under the guise that they were disgusting and no one liked them so may as well give the scraps to the boy and his vassal — when the wounds were too deep and infection would surely set themselves in. Iedolas had been smart enough to keep Noctis' magic in check, keeping their magitek technology on 24/7 and keeping his powers under steel and key, but Noctis had enough in him to turn the drinks into mediocre potions at the very least. They'd be a sticky mess of syrup and carbonation, but it's a small price to pay in comparison to saving their skin. 

Noctis and Ignis were always thankful for Aranea, for the small scraps of aid she offered. Oftentimes, she'd leap to the edge of treason, just to give them a bit of hope to keep trudging on, but she had not only her own life to be wary of but her men's too. They understood where her lines were drawn, where her limits were. There was only so much she could do before suspicion grew, and they never asked for more than she gave. 

So when they're being guided off the grounds, to be transferred to another compound the other side of Niflheim, and Loqi gives Ignis a particularly rough shove on his shoulder where his wound is still fresh, Noctis says nothing to Aranea as they board her airship. He doesn't think much about the size of her fleet or wonders why there's a handful more than what's needed for a simple chaperoning mission. 

But when the gate closes and he adjusts his eyes from the blinding white snow of Gralea to the dark and dimly lit metals of her ship, his stomach almost flips at how _ crowded _ it is inside. If what he's seeing is any indication, then surely she has all her men boarded. He realizes, too slowly, he doesn't recognize a single Niflheim crest or magitek trooper in sight. 

Ignis, too, comes to the same conclusion in record speed. 

Biggs and Wedge come up to them, keys jangling as they undo their restraints, and Noctis already feels a storm of emotions well up in his chest, his mind already predicting what's to come but he can't fathom how or why or if he's just dreaming. He's teetering on the edge, afraid to take the leap towards truth and reality in fear it'll be ripped away from him in some cruel joke. 

Aranea does it for him and gently prods him forward into a seat by a window.

"We're going home, kiddo."

"Home?" Noctis would curse at how his voice cracks, if not for how numb his brain is. He’s sludging through fog and mud, refusing to look up and realize how clear it all actually is. 

Biggs and Wedge shove their shoulders against each other, trying to get their first words in before the other can. 

"T' Insomnia, Prince! Ain't that exciting!" 

"Home sweet home. Yer da's paying us a big coin, don'tcha know?" 

Noctis can’t do much but blink and breathe, his mind running a mile a minute on a blank canvas. He’s going where? His dad is what? Ignis sinks into the seat beside him, looking just as dazed as he is. 

“Shush, boys.” Aranea parts her subordinates like a flimsy curtain in her way and stands in front of them, leaning forward just slightly to see past Noctis’ hanging bangs. “Listen, Prince. I meant it when I said beating up kids isn’t my thing.”

“But… But Aldercapt is going to — I mean, treason? Aren’t you — “

“The old man is getting senile. First he’s babbling about some pretty rock, next he’ll get Alzheimer’s and forget my pay. I’m sure he’ll forget my pretty face soon enough.” Aranea shrugs like an execution by firing squad or being thrown into Besithia’s daemon vault is a minor inconvenience. But when she still sees that guarded look in his eyes, his expression of disbelief and near refusal, she shakes her head and barks an order to her men. 

“I don’t like being on the losing side, got a whole bunch depending on me to make the right decisions and keep the money flowing, you know? I’ve had a few words with some Marshal on your side of things, made a bargain with your dad.” Aranea lifts her hand for Biggs to deliver a rolled parchment, the unmistakable Lucian seal waxed onto it and broken from where it’s been read. She gives it to Noctis, but his fingers are heavy like lead and his motor skills are uncooperative. Ignis takes it instead, hands shaking, but takes it nonetheless and slowly unravels it.

“Immunity. And twice the commission of what the Emperor is paying." She leans over and runs her finger across the lines of their terms. "On the condition that I bring you two home to daddy dearest.” 

Her words seem shallow, that she's doing this to save her own skin and her comrades, but her tone is not as unkind. Her edges are softened, with a certain tenderness in her eyes as she says it and that half-joking smile she likes to sport around when none of the Niffs are looking. 

“Home.” Noctis whispers to himself, half out of fear that the mere utterance will shatter everything, the other half out of sheer reverence as if it holds all the world’s wonders. But the word feels so foreign yet so familiar on his tongue — a bittersweet memory that plays in between his dreams and worst nightmares. It’s a distant hope he’s clutched close to his heart yet held onto so gingerly with how fragile it’s become. He carefully reaches his fingers toward Ignis’ hand, desperately needing a reality check to see if he’s not actually dreaming.

“Home.” Ignis repeats, in the same tone of awe and wonder as he locks their hands together. 

The crew give them space, Aranea dragging Biggs and Wedge to their posts while the rest somehow find any excuse or tinkering to do. Mercenaries they all are — killers for hire, soldiers for coin — but they have the empathy and wisdom to know when they’re unneeded. Noctis will have to thank them later, but for now all he wants is this quiet moment. This miracle to share with Ignis.

They don’t say anything, just silent understanding where they hold onto each other. Noctis is almost afraid to say anything, that any more words will break this spell and his next blink will transport him out of the sky and back into Gralea’s cold fortress. On that idea alone, he doesn’t dare look away from the window where he sees the soft reflection of the engine’s red energy and the dawn’s billowy clouds. Until Ignis gives his hand a soft squeeze and buries his damp face into the crook of Noctis’ neck. 

Noctis closes his eyes and leans his head against Ignis, squeezing his hand back. They say nothing still, still dazed that this is all happening, that they’ll _ finally _ see freedom at the end of this bloody road they share. That finally, they have a quiet moment together to not sob and grieve over what they lost, but for what they have gained. 

Quickly though, all the years of struggling and enduring the marathon of abuse and mindfucks suddenly crash into him as one crippling wave of exhaustion, and Noctis finds his eyelids too heavy to open. There’s still fear, that anxiety that makes him wonder if it’s not all some illusion or hoax, that keeps him from succumbing to the fatigue that’s suddenly dragging him down. 

He’s defeated in one fell swoop when a comforting weight drapes itself around his shoulders — and Ignis, too, he faintly thinks — and he feels a light cotton brush against his skin. A blanket, he recognizes, and Aranea’s voice murmuring something about resting and “a few long days’ trip.” 

It’s fine, though. He and Ignis have suffered together through all the years, and they lived. They can make it a couple more days.

The anticipation may come close to killing him when he wakes and darts over to the ship’s radar every five minutes to see how much farther they need to go until they hit Lucis, only to have Ignis drag him to the back and soothe his nerves. And having Biggs and Wedge beat him in nearly every round of poker because he’s just learning how to play while Ignis is suddenly a master card player might just make him want to tear his own hair out. 

But it’ll all be worth it, when he sees his darling kingdom on the horizon and his father’s magic cascading above the walls — with Ignis ever at his side. 


End file.
